


Amped

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amped; verb: to be stimulated by drugs, especially cocaine or methamphetamines. </p><p>If they looked back, neither man would be able to really pinpoint the moment that it seemed like a great idea for both of them to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amped

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely certain why I wanted to write John and Sherlock doing cocaine and having sex together. It seems unlikely that John would agree to it, and I can't think of a good reason why they would do it together. If you feel up to a suspension of disbelief, enjoy.
> 
> This is my first public dip into the Sherlock fandom (privately, I have some ridiculous number in the 130's of fic saved to my Kindle. Ye gods, someone save me). This fic is un-beta'd and un-Brit-picked. If you have any corrections to suggest, please let me know.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.

_Stripped of the right to be a human in control_

_It's warmer in Hell, so down we go_

If they looked back, neither man would be able to really pinpoint the moment that it seemed like a great idea for both of them to do it.

John is a doctor, and as a doctor he should know exactly the effects the drugs would have on either of them. He would know intrinsically that if one is going to take drugs, even though one _shouldn't_ , that one should have a babysitter of sorts, a sober party who can take care of the drugged-up person. Generally, he being a doctor, he'd be the practical choice.

For some ungodly reason, he agrees to it. John's not a pushover in any sense of the word but it's difficult for him to deny Sherlock something he wants, so that night finds them pushing the drugs into their veins with tiny sterile needles. It's incredibly out of character for him, and John suspects that he may be trying to reclaim some of his glory days from uni.

John is no stranger to some of the milder hallucinogens and intoxicants, but he's never tried cocaine before. He knows with the detached mindset of a medical practitioner that an hour-long high with euphoria, alertness, and a racing heart are some of the things he can expect from the experience. He knows that there will be a ringing in his ears for several minutes and that injection means that the onset will be very rapid.

It does absolutely nothing to prepare him for the quiet panic he feels as it kicks in. Sherlock, the hyperactive dolt that he is, lolls backwards into the sofa, almost relaxed, his fingertips tapping out his heartbeat against his chest as it increases. Sherlock _would_ be able to do something like shoot up illegal drugs and simply take the time to analyze the evidence at hand. 

John, meanwhile, is trying not to have a nervous breakdown. He's a doctor and he knows that it's unlikely that his heart is going to simply explode, but it feels like it's going to pop out of his chest and do a little jig in the middle of the sitting room. Then the aforementioned ringing begins, a tinny whining noise that makes him scratch against the sides of his head in confusion.

When he's done and the ringing's gone he's surprised to find that he's curled up against Sherlock, who has apparently taken the time to pull him up to him and is trying to reassure him, although the words that come out of his mouth are of no human language that John has ever heard to date. John lays his head against Sherlock's chest and contents himself by listening to Sherlock's heart – it's not nearly as fast as John's and it's comforting, and John thinks that if he could just hang on to this he stands a chance of getting through this alright.

Sherlock's hand is now curling through John's hair, as short as it is, and it feels marvelous. He purrs – _purrs,_ like a bloody _cat_ – and leans into the touch. Sherlock chuckles and it's a lovely rumble against his ear. He likes Sherlock's voice. It's lovely and deep and comforting. It sounds like home.

He attempts to tell Sherlock this but fails. It doesn't matter because Sherlock keeps talking nonsense words that relax John even further.

John lifts his head from Sherlock's chest. He's curled into a tiny ball at this point, up against Sherlock's side, and Sherlock has an arm draped around his shoulders, hugging him closer than is strictly necessary for this sort of thing. “Keep talking,” he whispers, leaning in and staring at Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock laughs and keeps talking. It's a specialty of his, John knows, the talking. That _voice_.

Eventually John has gotten so close to Sherlock's mouth that their skin is very nearly touching. He's squinting, watching that beautiful set of lips form words that mean absolutely nothing to him. It's insane how lovely they look making words. 

They are abruptly yanked out of John's sight when Sherlock leans over to kiss him. It's lovely, as far as kisses go, and John kisses back. It feels _more_ than any kiss he's ever had in his life, and abstractly he knows that it's the cocaine that's doing this, making every nerve ending feel more alive, but he doesn't particularly care.

Sherlock makes a vaguely helpless noise and John reaches out to run a hand through his hair. _God_ , he's wanted to do that forever, run a hand through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock pulls him forward and there's a bit of adjustment and then John is sitting on his lap and they're outright making out. John can't find it in himself to give a shit. It feels lovely. This really was a better idea, this position, and he thinks fondly of Sherlock for a moment for thinking of it.

Sherlock has his hands up John's shirt now, and John throws his head out of the kiss for a second to hiss in pleasure as the younger man's nails scrape up his sides. 

“God, Sherlock,” he murmurs, and leans in to nip at Sherlock's neck. He's not entirely sure why but he begins to unbutton buttons on that damnable purple shirt, slowly, memorizing the way each button comes out of the hole. With every successful de-buttoning he leans in and presses a moist kiss to Sherlock's chest, and the other man's breath hitches each time.

Finally he's tugged the shirt out of Sherlock's pants and has successfully defrocked him. Sherlock does the same for him, only with more caresses up his sides that make him throw his head back and suck in breath. They're both shirtless and shoeless and sockless and John thinks at this point that it would be really remarkable that they could both be trouser-less and pants-less as well. He tells Sherlock this.

Sherlock laughs languidly in an agreeing sort of tone. John wonders if he's just lost the ability to understand words or if Sherlock really is speaking a foreign language. He finds he doesn't care. Sherlock is tugging at the fastenings to John's jeans, and John is kissing him again.

Sherlock seems to be in better control of himself, and John reflects that because he's done this before it makes that much more sense. But he's still overwhelmed by these feelings, John can tell – he doesn't think that Sherlock has ever really been with someone else like this, but even if he had, he doesn't think he's actively done it while on cocaine. It's overwhelming for John and John's had plenty of sex before.

They're both naked, skin against skin, and John grinds against his flatmate while leaving little bite marks all over his neck and shoulders. After a few minutes of this Sherlock stands, still holding John up – he _shouldn't_ be able to do that, John's not quite as light and feminine as that, but he does because he's _Sherlock_ and maybe drugs just give him superhuman strength and that's why he likes them. Sherlock takes them to his bedroom, and they lay on his bed comfortably, touching each other and exploring and making strange little noises. Sherlock prods his bullet scar for several minutes, long fingers creeping out over the marred flesh, but for some reason it's erotic when he does it, rather than clinical, and it sends shivers down John's spine.

After a while Sherlock disappears from John's admittedly-limited view, and when he goes to prop himself up to find him, sees that he's positioned himself in between John's legs. John's head rolls back as Sherlock palms his erection, a breathy moan escaping from between his lips. Then a warmth envelopes him and he realizes through the dug-haze that Sherlock Holmes is sucking his dick.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, explosively, and he can feel Sherlock laughing lowly around his cock. 

A few more minutes of this are going to be his undoing, which he tries to tell Sherlock, who promptly ignores him. A few seconds later a lube-slicked finger makes it's way into his body and John sees stars.

Sherlock immediately removes his mouth from John's dick, and John cries out at the interruption. His protest is almost immediately stifled when Sherlock begins moving his fingers, loosening the ring of muscle and nudging against something lovely and glorious. He keeps talking, and John's comprehension must be coming back – maybe the drugs are wearing off? Cocaine is only supposed to be good for an hour at most, really, and it feels like it's been _days_ – because he can register slightly that there is some absolutely _filthy_ dirty talk coming out of Sherlock's mouth.

“Fuck, John,” he's saying, and John thinks he may come right then and there just from the sound of that glorious baritone. He continues along that trend, John catching occasional snatches of language that do nothing more than stimulate him. He lets out a moan that in any other state he might actually call wanton.

Sherlock moves then, and John dimly registers that they might both be coming down from the high. Still, nothing about this seems too terribly wrong, even though he knows, logically, that he should probably be protesting his absolutely gorgeous flatmate preparing to shag him senseless. He starts to suspect that the reason he agreed to this was, at the back of his mind, because this may happen and he doesn't think Sherlock would agree to it at any other time.

Traditionally cocaine was used as a painkiller. John knows this, and yet somehow he's surprised when Sherlock slides inside of him and it doesn't hurt. He suspects it's going to hurt a lot tomorrow morning, but right now he doesn't _care_. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, Sherlock, _yes_.”

The sound of his own name spilling from John's mouth spurs the younger man into action and soon they're a mass of tangled limbs and sweat-slicked flesh, grinding against each other, panting each other's names into each other's hair. When John finally comes, his own hand wrapped around his cock and Sherlock's name on his lips, it's only a few moments before Sherlock himself does. 

*** * * * ***

John groans awake. There's sunlight streaming through the window but it's at the wrong angle, all wrong and his mouth is dry. His whole body feels wrung out and his ass hurts.

With a startling clarity his eyes shoot open. He's not too surprised to find that Sherlock is staring at him coolly, his impenetrable Sherlock-facade slamming down the moment John's eyes open.

John thinks Sherlock might be a masochist.

He sits up, shaking his head. “I need a few minutes,” he says, his throat rough. He vaguely remembers yelling a lot and thinks that that might be the reason.

Still running on cold, Sherlock stands up from the bed, still completely naked. John contemplates that long, glorious body for several minutes while Sherlock searches for his pyjamas and dressing gown. _Ye gods,_ John thinks. _How in God's green earth did I manage to get together with something so out of my class?_

“Tea,” Sherlock says, shortly. John nods acceptance of that excuse as Sherlock leaves the room as quickly as possible.

John takes the time to visit the bathroom and check for damage, but Sherlock was careful. He's fine, physically, if a little bit sore. He realizes on his way out of the room that his clothes are all still in the sitting room.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks. Sherlock may have been addled on drugs last night, but John is willing to bet everything he owns that Sherlock could map out every single inch of John's body from memory. 

He's not sure what Sherlock is expecting when he emerges from the bedroom, but he knows he's sleep-rumpled and likely looks rather grumpy: he's useless without a hit of caffeine in the morning. Either way, Sherlock tenses seeing a fully-nude John Watson appear in front of him. He appears so indecisive that John actually _laughs_ at him.

He scowls at John and sets a cup of tea in front of him. John doesn't bother going for his clothes – his nightclothes are all upstairs in his room anyway, as is his dressing gown, and he doesn't particularly want to redress in full trousers. He may, after this cuppa, grab the pants he left behind the night previous, but he's not willing to move without at least a few sips of tea.

To his surprise Sherlock drapes his own dressing gown around his shoulders, fussing a bit with the outer hem before going back to whatever it was he was doing. John looks at him with his eyebrow raised.

“You are _distracting_ me,” Sherlock says, primly. John looks down at himself and then back up to Sherlock.

“Really?” he says, disbelief apparent in his voice.

Sherlock gives him the _you-are-being-an-idiot_ look and turns back to what he was doing – which was, wonder of wonders, making breakfast.

John drinks his tea and then wanders into the sitting room to grab his pants. He's somehow alright with wearing Sherlock's dressing gown around and doesn't feel the need to go grab his own. 

Although of course if Sherlock asks for it back he will. But there's something nice about wearing Sherlock's dressing gown around the night after they'd shagged each other senseless.

He wonders when the other shoe is going to drop.

“Er,” he says, a thought occurring to him. “How long does...well, how long does it stay in your system?” He coughs. “The clinic does random drug tests, see...”

“For a standard urine test?” Sherlock says, not looking back at him. “Anywhere from two days to a week.”

“Oh, good,” John says, slumping over his tea. “It would be real inconvenient to get fired right now.”

Sherlock shoots him another Look, almost furtively, although this one is less implying that John is stupid and more questioning why John is worried about his finances right now.

John sighs. “Look, Sherlock, us mere mortals? We worry about things like being able to pay our half of the bills and eating. Actually, eating regularly is quite nice and I'd like to keep it up, so I need a job.”

Sherlock snorts, and John can almost hear him say it aloud: _Boring_.

They're dancing around it, John knows, and it's going to be horrible the longer they put it off, but John decides that he's going to give himself this one, leisurely, happy breakfast and mug of tea before he and Sherlock get into it.

Breakfast is strangely delicious and John eyes the fry-up with suspicion. “How long, exactly, have you been able to cook?”

“I've _always_ been able to cook,” Sherlock says, rolling his gorgeous eyes again. “I _did_ have to live on my own before I met you, John.”

“And yet, somehow, _I_ always do the cooking.” 

Sherlock flutters his hand vaguely. “More convenient,” he says, before sipping his mug of tea.

John raises his eyebrow, and goes back to breakfast.

When John has finished his portion Sherlock swoops down, collecting his dishes and depositing him on the couch with a fresh cup of tea. John is getting highly suspicious at this point and wonders if he's about to be dumped from a relationship that never actually started up. He's never known Sherlock to actively attempt to be nice like this and it's slightly terrifying.

It's worse when Sherlock takes up a spot on the opposite end of the couch, clutching a cup of tea for dear life and avoiding his gaze. He's practically curled up inside of himself. And while John knows that he's actively attempting to look like he's having a sulk, Sherlock Holmes is doing nothing but observing John Watson.

It's _more_ than terrifying, being the sole subject of concern for that great ruddy brain of his. John actually coughs lightly at this point.

“Sherlock, I'm not an idiot,” he points out. Sherlock doesn't have the grace to look abashed, instead glancing at him through narrowed eyes that make John realize exactly how long his eyelashes are, although lighter than the rest of the hair on his body.

_It's really not fair,_ John thinks, _for a man to have such a pretty face. Criminal, even._

Sherlock's eyebrow raises and John gets a turn at rolling his eyes. 

It becomes obvious after several minutes that Sherlock is not going to start the conversation. He's waiting for John. For the last bit of evidence. John sighs.

“Right, then,” he says, carefully looking at the skull across the room and not the one sitting next to him. “So while that was all fairly amazing, I'm never doing that again.”

Sherlock blinks.

“The drugs, that is,” he continues. “And I'd _really_ appreciate it if you didn't do them anymore either, although I can't exactly control you.”

“You think I want to talk about the cocaine,” Sherlock says, and it's not a question.

“Not particularly, but I thought it was a pretty good opener,” John admits, turning to look at his friend. “As far as openers go, anyway.”

A slight smirk appears on Sherlock's lips, but it's gone before John has a chance to really notice it properly. 

John looks away again. “The rest of it...was good. You know, fine.” His face heats up.

Sherlock doesn't say anything and John risks a glance at him. His Sherlock-facade has slammed down again and John winces.

“Look,” he says. “I know you don't do interpersonal relationships like that. It's fine. I'm not going to sit here and misinterpret one really fabulous night together as some sort of marriage proposal, so you can stop tiptoeing around me, okay? Things can just..go back to how they _were_ ,” and he offers this with an unconscious clutching of the dressing gown about him, like he feels naked. He relaxes his grip, knowing that Sherlock saw it and has probably analyzed about ten different things about him from it.

“You're anxious,” Sherlock notes.

“No _shit_ ,” John replies. They still aren't looking at each other. John's somewhat worried that now that he's woken up and has some caffeine in his body and is forcing himself to look at the situation properly that he's going to look at Sherlock and remember those fingers on his skin, or that mouth on his neck. Sherlock, he knows, has bites all up and down his torso from John, and John's fairly certain he has some matching ones of his own.

“ _Why_ are you anxious,” Sherlock says, once again not making it a question. He's peering at John through squinty eyes, trying to deduce him. John fights down the urge to strangle him for it.

“You're serious,” John says. He outright turns and looks at his friend. “You are _actually_ serious. You can't figure out why I might be anxious?” 

“Don't have all the data,” Sherlock says, squinting even more. He's leaning toward John like he's some sort of puzzle.

“Sherlock, this is another one of those situations,” John explains. “One of those things where you're not behaving alright. This is _not good_.”

Sherlock blinks. “But it's just you and I. That's never mattered before.”

“Yeah, well, things _have_ changed a little bit,” John says. His pulse has shot through the roof because Sherlock has once again decided that personal space as a concept doesn't exist, and is right in his face, examining everything and _smelling_ him. Actually _smelling_ him.

“Your pulse is elevated,” Sherlock comments. “Pupils dilated, producing more sweat than usual.” He sits back. “You're attracted to me.”

John stares at him. “Do you honestly believe that I would have agreed to have sex with you if I wasn't?” he asks.

Sherlock fidgets. “You didn't really _agree_ to anything. You were impaired.”

“I distinctly remember agreeing,” John points out, reasonably. “Several times, in fact, even after the drugs wore off.”

Sherlock keeps fidgeting and John realizes what his issue is. “You honestly think you _molested_ me?” A guilty look flashes over his friend's face. “Sherlock, that's ridiculous. Do you really think that if I hadn't wanted it I couldn't have fought you off? I'm no martial artist, but I _was_ in the army, and I _do_ know how to defend myself against ridiculous, emotionally-stunted man-children.”

“I am _not_ ridiculous,” Sherlock said, not bothering to refute the rest of the statement.

“Yes,” John says. “You _are_. But it's alright, because you're _my_ ridiculous, emotionally-stunted man-child and I prefer you that way.” This is said rather fondly and John thinks he's probably shown his hand at this point, but he doesn't care. 

Sherlock looks up at him and for the first time since John's known him he looks doubtful. John sighs and puts it all on the table.

“I can't figure out how you haven't deduced it,” John says, carefully not breaking Sherlock's gaze despite how flustered this is making him, “But I'm crazy about you.”

He takes in the details of this moment, using every bit of deduction Sherlock has taught him. Sherlock's pulse elevates. His breath hitches slightly and his eyes look vaguely liquid, although if he _actually_ starts crying John is going to be rather horrified with himself. His pupils dilate.

John raises his eyebrow. He'd say more but his lips are very suddenly smothered by those of a ridiculous, emotionally-stunted man-child.

 

“You know,” John says later, draping his arm over Sherlock, “sometimes we're going to have to actually talk things through. You can't solve every problem with sex.”

Sherlock curls his head into John's side. “We can certainly _try_ ,” he mumbles. His arm is likewise draped over John's midsection. The two of them are covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he's not exactly sure when they managed to make it back to Sherlock's room, but he can't find it in himself to really think about it long enough to remember.

John lets out a huff of laughter and lets his face fall into Sherlock's ridiculous riot of curls. “You'll be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes,” he mumbles. “But I'll love you for it anyway.”


End file.
